


Best Served Cold

by mogwai_do



Series: Penance [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e12 Comes a Horseman, Horsemen Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jumping to conclusions can lead to a very rough landing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Served Cold

Kronos groaned where he lay on the floor, fire crawled through his veins with an excruciating lack of speed. His hands were slick and red as they tried, unsuccessfully, to hold the wound closed. The stupid bitch hadn't known enough to make it a killing stroke and now he writhed in agony as his Quickening struggled to keep him alive when his death would have made the healing that much quicker and easier. She was really going to suffer for this, her Immortality ensured that; she'd be begging him to take her head before the end of the first day, but he was not inclined to be so generous. She had stolen his brother's affections and for that alone he had wanted rid of her, now, oh now she was going to _pay_.

Pain-glazed blue eyes focused on the bloody knife lying on the rug only a short distance away; it was a suitable instrument for his revenge and he concentrated on thoughts of how it could best be used to take his mind from his current humiliating situation.

Eventually the red haze of pain receded enough that Kronos was once more able to take account of his surroundings. He could sense another Immortal close by and he grinned viciously to himself. She could run all she wanted, but his brothers would always bring her back within a matter of minutes, trussed like a prize for his amusement.

The cold, steady, hazel eyes that met his were not what he had expected.

Methos stood watch, face impassive, his plain white tunic out of place amongst the rich carpets and cushions that proclaimed Kronos' success as a raider. Something about the lack of expression on that pale face unsettled the Horseman, but his mind still fogged with pain Kronos couldn't immediately say what.

"Methos?" he queried as he struggled to sit, the half-healed wound protesting with every movement.

Methos didn't reply, but it seemed for a moment that his eyes glittered entirely gold in the lamplight, alien and predatory, looking down at him. Kronos felt his unease grow and painfully pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the physical discomfort in favour of alleviating the less tangible one.

"Where's the girl?" he tried again, anger seeping into his tones, both at the thought of her actions and at the indefinable wrongness that permeated the air.

"Gone," Methos' voice was a match for his expression, devoid of any of his usual smug arrogance or calculated malevolence, not that he ever turned them on his brother anyway.

Kronos blinked in confusion. "She escaped?" he demanded incredulously.

Now Methos smiled, a vicious smile, "I let her go."

"What?" Kronos exclaimed, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Silas and Caspian..."

"...slept through the whole thing," Methos finished for him and the smile now had a tinge of his characteristic smugness to it.

Kronos recalled memories as a child of trying to cross a frozen lake only to find, halfway across as the ice began to crack and slide, that it wasn't as safe as he had thought. The frantic panicky feeling as the world slipped out from beneath him was exactly the same.

Methos' smile was now more smug than vicious as he watched the realisation of fear dawn in his brother's blue eyes. He took a step forward, closing the space between them, and one slender hand slipped behind Kronos' neck to pull him forward.

Methos' lips closed over Kronos' bringing with them tender annihilation and Kronos couldn't help but respond. A soft, wet tongue traced his lips and he opened his mouth to welcome it, as his hands came to rest lightly on Methos' hips, pulling the older Immortal closer. Methos' body pressed rhythmically against his and Kronos could feel himself grow hard, his mind helplessly awash with the pleasure of his brother's knowing touch. Cassandra was forgotten, so too were Caspian and Silas; all that existed was within this tent, within the circle of his arms, as he slid them around to stroke lightly over his lover's back.

The imperative for air was all that made him break the kiss and Kronos resented it like he had nothing else in a long time. As his brother gulped air, Methos trailed his mouth along the line of Kronos' jaw to his ear.

Kronos ignored the fierce ache of arousal as Methos' lips brushed his ear and he strained to hear the words spoken so softly. "That," Methos murmured, "was because even after all this time, I still want you."

Then Methos abruptly stepped back, pulling free of Kronos' encircling arms, and a strong fist lashed out with ruthless precision, striking exactly over the not-quite-healed wound. Kronos gasped as his breath left him in a rush, small explosions of pain fired behind his eyes and he dropped to his knees for the second time that night. He could feel the warmth of his blood as it began to soak his tunic again, strangely similar to the dampness that seeped from his still-hard cock. He looked up at Methos, pain blurred his vision, but he had no difficulty recognising the cold, hard expression on his lover's face.

"And _that,_ " Methos continued unfazed, his voice as hard as the planes of his face, "was because you doubted it." Without another word Methos turned and left the tent.

Despite the lamps blazing and the thick rugs on which he lay, the tent seemed suddenly very cold and comfortless. Kronos felt his eyes burn with a long forgotten sensation as a third dampness began to trail down his face. He didn't need to add the three together to know what that confusing and deadly combination meant. Blood, tears and lust; pain, sorrow and arousal; anger, hurt and hunger. Any way he viewed it, it meant the same thing.

Methos' anger was not like Kronos', a summer storm, swift to rise and swift to depart; it was cold like the ice fields of the north but infinitely more deadly. Taking Cassandra had been a mistake - he should have taken Methos, but his own fear had risen up to choke him and the anger it had caused had demanded release not appeasement. He should have known, _did_ know, that Methos could have provided either if given the chance. Methos had not forsaken his lover, Kronos had simply chosen to believe it and Methos might never forgive him that betrayal.

Time passed and the tears dried, the wound healed and the arousal faded. Kronos slowly levered himself up, crawling to the pile of furs that made his bed - one that would be very lonely tonight. He knew better than to lie to himself, his lover had taught him that, amongst other things, and he was painfully aware of why his misjudgement, and the reaction it had caused, hurt so badly.

Love was not a weakness he would ever admit to, certainly not to anyone else, but it might be the only thing that could persuade Methos to forgive him. If he could only have just one more chance to offer it.

 

The End


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